


Everyday Is Like Sunday

by SmartKIN



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (the Hales didn’t leave town), AU, Alpha Scott, Books, Claiming, Cooking, Derek Has Issues, M/M, No Boundaries - Freeform, PTSD, Pack Feels, Possessive Derek, Possible Trigger Warning: Being Forcefully Restrained, Post 3a, Scent Marking, Stiles Has Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wolfy Behavior, dealing with things by not dealing with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmartKIN/pseuds/SmartKIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek spend a whole week in bed together. It’s rather therapeutic.</p><p>Or: They “Deal With Things” by blocking out the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Is Like Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by the wonderful BethBobby! Thank you so much again for your help!
> 
> I really just needed to see _some_ healing after 3A. This plot-bunny has followed me around for a long time now, but it's finally done.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it :D

 

When Stiles rings Derek’s... well, doorbell, for lack of a better word, even though it’s really a proximity alarm that’s also rigged to function as a make-shift doorbell... anyway, it’s Sunday and he arrives at the loft armed with a duffel bag filled to the brim with a week’s worth of clothes and a pile of books he’s been meaning to read forever. Some of them have crumpled sheets of notebook paper scribbled full of random recipes stuffed between the pages (he isn’t actually convinced that Derek knows how to cook, no matter what the werewolf keeps saying).

 

Derek is barefoot when he opens the door, wearing only sweats and a loose shirt and it makes him look vulnerable and soft and tired. Stiles has a weird urge to hug him, because seeing him like this hurts, especially after everything that’s happened lately.

 

The wolf takes one long look at him and lets him into the loft without a single comment. He just sighs like he doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore and letting Stiles into the den takes less effort than trying to make him leave.

 

Stiles also secretly hopes that Derek likes him at least a teensy-tiny bit these days. The wolf _had_ believed him over Ms. Blake without asking for substantial proof. And even if Derek doesn’t like him (because, let’s be real, Stiles is way too annoying and can be a total asshole when he wants to be... and sometimes even when he doesn’t) he at least trusts him now, right? Right.

 

Still. Mutual trust aside, barging into Derek’s loft uninvited is a no-go in Stiles’ book. The proximity alarm has been broken ever since the Alpha Pack had targeted Boyd, and well... Derek may be able to recognize his heartbeat or gait or scent or something by now (he doesn’t really know all that much about his wolfy powers and Scott has a tendency of being more than unhelpful about these things), but he doesn’t want to risk triggering anything. They’re probably all suffering from varying levels of PTSD after... Okay. So. Doorbell.

 

Because Stiles _does_ have a sense of self-preservation. It’s just not tuned to the same frequency as that of most people. And startling a werewolf seems like a pretty bad idea, especially for the squishy human. Attacking unknown intruders with razor-sharp teeth and talons has probably become the default reaction to being caught off-guard. Stiles emphatically does not want to catch Derek off-guard.

 

He barges into the loft in his usual loud and uncoordinated manner, dropping his duffel bag on the ground next to the couch. Derek makes his way towards the bed and gets comfortable atop the covers, grabbing the book he has most likely been reading before Stiles has turned up.

 

Great minds, apparently, do really think alike. It's a whole thing now and everything. Or maybe they’re all being mind-controlled by a book monster that will soon suck their souls into whatever story they’re reading.

 

Yeah. Maybe not.

 

Cora and Isaac nod at him in greeting from where they’re currently occupying the sturdy dining table. He bobs his head in return, relieved to see them. It’s good that they are still alive. He’s been having these feelings whenever he sees people he knows, no matter whether he actually likes them or not. So many people have died. Every person that’s still alive feels like a win somehow.

 

If Stiles is completely honest, he’s sort of forgotten that Derek doesn’t live alone. Back in the day, (which has only been like what, a year and a couple of months? God.) Derek has seemed like a complete loner. A creepy loner, at that. Seeing him cohabiting with his pack is weird.

 

For a moment Stiles is lost in thought and he startles when somebody—Creepy Uncle Peter, in fact—claps their hands together like a cheerful kindergarten teacher. Stiles tries to look less freaked out than he feels.

 

Peter seems to be the only perky presence in the room; everyone else—Stiles included—is a bit off, a washed-out version of their usual selves.

 

The eldest Hale is perched on the spiral staircase in the corner as if he hasn’t left that spot since the last time they have seen each other (does he move into that position whenever somebody comes into a ten foot perimeter of the loft or is he just really, really fond of stairs?). He now pushes away from the construction and makes his way across the room.

 

“Good,” Peter comments in his signature tone of voice: partly amused, but mostly villainy. “The babysitter has arrived, I can finally leave without fear of the kids leaving crude drawings on the walls.” His gaze briefly roams over the gigantic hole adorning one side of the room. “Or what’s left of them anyway.”

 

“Nobody asked you to stay,” Derek offers like the snotty little teenager that he still very much is deep inside, causing his uncle to chuckle in delight, as if evoking Derek’s dry remark has been his sole intention all along.

 

“Does that mean you’ll pay me for being here?” Stiles asks, because he lost his brain-to-mouth filter sometime shortly after he learned how to talk (if he’s ever possessed one in the first place, that is). Okay, so maybe his self-preservation isn’t that highly developed after all.

 

Derek snorts and Peter turns his indulgent but still super-creepy smile in Stiles’ direction, who promptly wishes to know how to just shut up in these situations. Peter definitely still gives him the creeps.

 

Stiles swallows thickly and throws himself onto the couch as far away from Peter’s current position as possible and stretches his long limbs in hopes of looking at ease and totally unthreatened by the zombie wolf. The older man’s smile turns into a smirk indicating that yes, he’s aware of what Stiles is doing.

 

Without another word Peter struts out the door, throwing a jaunty wave over his shoulder. As soon as he’s gone, Cora and Isaac scramble up the stairs and out of sight. Stiles looks after them, bemused.

 

In their wake the loft falls into an effortless silence.

 

Stiles takes a couple of moments to just taste the air on his tongue, feel its flow contract his lungs and push out his chest. For the first time in months he feels a tentative sort of calm settle over him, a calm he can actually trust, one that doesn’t lull him into a false sense of security and then ends in horrible, horrible death.

 

Thankful that Derek doesn’t seem to give a fuck what Stiles is doing, he finally digs through his duffel bag and grabs the first book he touches. When he is certain that he will be able to concentrate, he curls a bit in on himself, one leg dangling over the armrest of the couch, and flips the cover of _The Remains of the Day_.

 

Sunday afternoon is strictly spent in silence. For once it isn’t a chore.

 

~

 

By the time Stiles feels hungry he’s already manages to read a good portion of the book. He’s always been a fast reader, which is pretty handy when it comes to doing homework.

 

He stretches until it hurts, puts down his book and wanders into the niche that poses as a kitchen, stealing some of Derek’s pop-tarts that are sitting on the counter and pops them into the toaster.

 

Literally two seconds before they are done Derek is suddenly a solid presence right behind him.

 

Stiles freezes and momentarily forgets how to breathe. But the werwolf only waits for the pop-tarts to emerge like edible jacks-in-the-box and steals one of them right back, stuffing his face on his way back to the bed.

 

Stiles can’t help but stare after him.

 

This isn’t the Derek he’s used to.

 

This Derek is barefoot, wearing a rumpled T-shirt, steals food and is surprisingly easy company.

 

Stiles shakes his head, munches on his own pop-tart and repositions himself on the couch.

 

They don’t talk about what’s happened in the past couple of months, about how they shouldn’t be comfortable with each other but somehow are (and how they hate being alone, but cannot quite admit that even to themselves), how Scott is the only Alpha in the greater Beacon Hills area (and does that mean that they are pack, now?), and they certainly don’t talk about their losses and invisible scars that will stay with them for a very long time, if not the rest of their lives.

 

In fact, they don’t really talk at all. Not over pop-tarts, not in between reading a couple of passages and staring out of the window through which the creamy daylight barely filters through. The city’s outline is a smudged blur behind thick glass, not tangible enough to bother them here.

 

They just exist quietly in the same room. It is a comfortable state of being, Stiles finds. The perpetual feeling of panic recedes a little in face of Derek’s silent, non-violent, not-crisis-related companionship.

 

When Stiles is finally tired enough to maybe attempt sleeping, Derek looks up from his book like he can smell it on him and considers him for a long moment before scooting over a little, making space on the mattress.

 

That in itself makes Stiles doubt his sanity just a bit.

 

“Dude, no,” Stiles waves his hands through the air. “I can totally sleep on the couch, it’s cool!”

 

Derek frowns and throws him a Look that loosely translates into ‘why do you have to be so difficult’ or maybe ‘why did I think it was a good idea to surround myself with teenagers who abuse the English language on a daily basis’. (Okay, so Stiles made that last bit up, but he always thinks that Derek looks even more frowny-faced when Stiles calls him ‘dude’.)

 

“Get in,” the werewolf says grouchily, lifting the covers to underscore his point and Stiles just heaves out a sigh.

 

“I need to brush my teeth first,” he says and Derek nods, pointing lazily at the staircase in the corner.

 

Huh.

 

He’s never been upstairs before. Weirdly, this makes him feel like a VIP. It is one thing to have admittance to the, well, _show room_ of a home. It’s partly designed for the visitor’s benefit, although Stiles highly doubts that’s the case with Derek. The wolf is basically the antithesis of a mindful host. He _sleeps_ in his living slash front room after all. But then, it seems impossible to fit even a disassembled king-size bed up that tiny staircase.

 

Stiles grabs his things and gingerly takes one stair at a time, letting his hands brush along the cold rusty handrail while gazing steadily up through the metal framework.

 

The upper floor isn’t just an open space like Derek’s living room. It’s a dark hallway that leads off into a number of rooms, most of them barred from prying eyes.

 

Stiles shrugs to himself and opens the first door on his right. It turns out to be Cora’s room.

 

 _Awkward_.

 

It’s different from what he expects. Although, Stiles isn’t quite sure what he’s expected. But the neat desk, the posters of actors on the walls, the vintage wardrobe, and freaking throw pillows on the gray and purple comforter definitely aren’t it. So you can actually fit furniture up those stairs. Maybe there should have been a filthy mattress in one corner, maybe some empty take-out boxes littering the floor, the walls spray-painted with graffiti. That would make it less weird.

 

Eerily reminiscent of her brother, Cora is laying on her bed, reading. Maybe it’s a Hale thing. She looks up and peers at him, unimpressed.

 

“Uhm, bathroom?” Stiles asks, feeling strangely exposed under her gaze.

 

“Down the hall,” she says, sounding utterly bored. But there is an amused glint in her dark eyes that prompts him to relax his stiff shoulders. “Last door on the left.”

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles and leaves Cora to her own devices.

 

The bathroom is surprisingly clean and modern. Black marble tiles on floor and walls (or so he thinks, it could be some random dark stone, Stiles has no clue about these things), chromed tapware, mirrored cabinets and a number of ceiling spots bathing the room in gentle yellow light.

 

Stiles locks the door and quickly changes into Batman-print boxer shorts and a too-wide T-Shirt that used to be his dad’s once upon a time.

 

While brushing his teeth he opens the cabinet above the sink, always the curious kid of a cop. He almost chokes on the toothpaste frothing in his mouth as he sees the plethora of hair products that have to belong to Derek because they’re for men and Isaac just doesn’t seem to use a lot of gel, if any at all. He holds back a gleeful snicker. This is pure gold.

 

Suddenly it hits him. It’s been a while since he’s spent the night anywhere but at home or at Scott’s. If he’s completely honest with himself, he can’t really remember sleeping anywhere else. A strange anxious warmth spreads through him, turning his palms clammy and speeding up his heart rate. He doesn’t know whether to feel happy about it. He’s barged his way in here, hasn’t he? Nobody invited him. Story of his life, really.

 

But Derek has let him in, though, right? Has let him into a part of his home that was apparently reserved for pack.

 

He’s reading way too much into all of this, isn’t he?

 

He finishes brushing his teeth in subdued silence.

 

When he makes it back downstairs, Derek doesn’t pay him any attention. So he drops his things in the general vicinity of his duffel bag and shuffles over to the bed, feeling a bit nervous all of a sudden. He hesitates for a brief moment trying to gauche whether he should argue some more for sleeping on the couch. Instead he takes a deep breath and crawls under the covers.

 

Derek continues reading.

 

It’s awkward at first, because, well, they are Stiles and Derek, and they exist in a perpetual state of awkwardness.

 

Stiles usually doesn’t have a problem falling asleep no matter where he happens to be. Spending months camped out in hospital waiting rooms tends to drill that into you quick. But here, in Derek’s bed ( _Derek’s bed_ , oh god)... The sheer possibility that somebody may watch him while he’s sleeping freaks him out. It didn’t use to. Not like this. He tries to tell himself that it’s Derek and that he feels safe with the wolf right there. It helps, if only marginally.

 

He turns his back to Derek, but now he’s too close to the edge. He hates it when his limbs hang in the air. With rustling sheets he hitches back a bit, hoping that the distance between him and the wolf is still big enough to be respectful.

 

Derek huffs and Stiles ceases to move, tries not to breathe too loudly and tells his tense muscles to relax (he also prays that there won’t be any nightmares).

 

Eventually, Derek’s rhythmic breathing and the occasional turning of a page lull him into an easy sleep.

 

~

 

Stiles wakes up with a heartbeat beneath his ear and the feeling of sleep-warm fabric against his fingertips. He hums under his breath and stretches lazily, his cheek rubbing slowly against the soft material. For a few moments he lives in the blissful state of the still partly-asleep, reveling in the cozy warmth of a shared bed and unconsciously knowing that he has no other place to be but here.

 

He buries deeper into the warmth he’s huddled up against.

 

Along with his awakening consciousness comes the revelation that there really shouldn’t be another body in his bed, particularly not any he’s allowed to snuggle up to.

 

Then he remembers where exactly it is that he’s spent the night.

 

Suddenly flailing, he sits up and nearly topples over backwards. Confronted with his typical lack of grace a very clearly awake Derek Hale can’t help but snort in dark amusement. Well, at least Stiles is entertaining this early in the morning?

 

“Ugh, sorry, dude,” he mumbles and paws at his eyes in an attempt to maybe wake up a bit more. “I’m a clingy octopus, I know.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. (And really, did he lose his ability to use sarcasm or what?)

 

Stiles just yawns shamelessly and promptly spots Isaac and Cora sitting at the table, watching him. He should be freaked out or at least offended when Cora greets him with a filthy smirk, but he’s really not. _Werewolves_ , he thinks and waves his good-morning.

 

He stretches until his joints pop, satisfied when it makes the three werewolves wince and flops back down onto the mattress.

 

Out of the blue and because werewolves seem unable to let him have his peace, Isaac suddenly blurts “Pancakes!” and instantly clamps a hand over his mouth, throwing an unsure glance in Derek’s direction. The wolf doesn’t even react to Isaac’s outburst, just continues reading his book. Apparently the former alpha just wants to be left alone, too.

 

When nothing happens, Isaac’s shoulders relax a bit. What did he think would happen? Derek smacking him down for wanting breakfast?

 

They’re all a bit damaged here, aren’t they?

 

“Uhm, I mean,” the curly-haired boy tries again. “Scott mentioned your blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes?”

 

Cora suddenly seems interested, too, and turns to look at him with large eyes that would rival an actual puppy. (And why are they such a powerful motivator when he _knows_ that she can be a real bitch if she wants to?)

 

“Will you make them for breakfast?” Isaac continues, sharing a look with Cora, who nods her head eagerly.

 

He absentmindedly wonders whether it’s been days or weeks or years since the girl has had decent pancakes for breakfast.

 

“Eh, sure,” he amends and feels like a pushover. “You’ll need to run to the store, though.”

 

There is just no way he’ll do the shopping _and_ the cooking when he’s not even fully awake yet (or maybe he should, who knows what sort of produce werewolves usually buy seeing as they don’t really have to worry about cholesterol or food poisoning).

 

Isaac grabs a piece of paper and pen that’s been waiting on the table and hands them to Stiles, who gives a barking laugh. He sits up and accepts the offered items with an easy grin.

 

“I see how it is,” Stiles remarks and starts to compile a messy shopping list. He mentally scrolls through his favorite recipes and extends the list beyond the ingredients for his infamous pancakes. He’ll need a lot, he thinks, seeing as Derek’s kitchen is horribly void of anything resembling proper food and/or basic stuff like olive oil or seasonings. “You only keep me around for my cooking!”

 

Isaac smiles brightly as he starts to understand what the quickly growing list means. It’s quite endearing, really. Stiles adds some snacks and notices Derek handing over his credit card in the corner of his eyes. He throws a questioning look at the older man’s direction.

 

“You need anything else, Sourwolf?”

 

“Pop-tarts,” is the instantaneous answer, which is delivered with a glare. “ _Someone_ ate the last one.”

 

“Dude, it’s not my fault that you don’t keep any real food in your kitchen,” he gripes, but adds pop-tarts to the list.

 

“I want the cinnamon roll ones,” Derek tells him petulantly like a perfect little tyrant. Or not so little, as it were. When the man walks away from the table he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _pop-tarts_ _ **are**_ _real food_.

 

Stiles decides not to ask.

 

~

 

Stiles cooks like he does everything else: haphazardly and with a lot of flailing movements. He remembers the basic recipes but doesn’t necessarily follow them to the letter. He is one of those cooks who add a little bit of this, taste the concoction, and add other seemingly random ingredients or spices to improve the taste until it is to their liking.

 

The werewolves seem utterly fascinated by it. Well, Derek watches him with a skepticism that would offend him if he weren’t already pretty much used to the strange ways of the wolf.

 

Cora and Isaac, though, they watch his every move like a hawk. It is, to say the least, fairly unnerving. But Stiles has decided a year and half ago that he will not let werewolf-related creepiness stop him from doing things he really wants to do.

 

So. Cooking.

 

He throws some more flour into the large bowl that he’s been able to unearth from the darkest reaches of Derek’s cabinets and, as an afterthought, adds a bit more because werewolves seem to have a bigger appetite than most living creatures. Stirring the flour into the so far too runny mixture he realizes that now the dough isn’t moist enough anymore and adds a generous helping of milk.

 

Cora pops a blueberry into her mouth and watches his spastic stirring with a partly amused, partly horrified expression on her face.

 

“There is no way this will be edible,” she comments and huffs as he dribbles some maple sirup into the mix.

 

Derek opens his mouth as if to say ‘I told you so’ and maybe, ‘let _me_ provide our breakfast, you heathen’ but Isaac hastily cuts him off.

 

“I'm sure it’ll be great! Scott says so!”

 

Derek scowls and crosses his arms. Stiles hides a smile as he carefully sprinkles the blueberries and chocolate chips into the bowl, before he gently folds them in.

 

The first pancake barely makes it out of the sizzling pan before Cora tries to commandeer the plate it landed on. Stiles slaps the back of her hand with his spatula and she draws back with a hiss and a pair of glowing eyes.

 

“Don’t even think about it!” Stiles chides and is momentarily tempted to add ‘young lady’ at the end of that sentence. He thinks better of it, though, because he values his life. He also doesn’t ask her whether she was raised by wolves (even though he really, really wants to) and thinks he deserves a medal for his self-restraint. “You and Isaac can go set the table.”

 

Cora scowls—now more than ever resembling her brother—but grabs some plates anyway.

 

After the young werewolves have slunk off, Stiles turns a sweet smile towards Derek.

 

“Would you mind making another pot of coffee?” he asks and watches in fascination as the wolf complies with a huff.

 

He should have utilized the power of food right from the start—he could have been top-dog (ha!) by now had he noticed Derek’s sweet tooth any sooner.

 

~

 

His pancakes turn out as delicious as always. Stiles has no scruples waxing poetic about his superior cooking skills. He is ignored, which is nothing new.

 

Isaac takes one bite and looks down at his plate with wide-eyed surprise.

 

“Derek, he can never leave!” Isaac tells the older man with fervor. It’s a sad commentary on his life that the enthusiastic remark actually makes him a bit uneasy. He’s been held captive before and this casual joke suddenly reminds him of electricity and pain.

 

He forces himself to think about the subtext of Isaac’s comment. It’s really a nice way of telling Derek that his cooking sucks.

 

Cora on the other hand doesn’t even try to mince her words.

 

“Ugh,” she starts around a mouthful of food, “if I have to eat one more burnt meal after this, I’m moving in with the Sheriff. Maybe Stiles will always cook for me!”

 

Derek glares at her, but doesn’t fail to snag another pancake.

 

It eases the pressure in his chest a little bit.

 

~

 

The rest of the day passes much like Sunday did, only now Isaac and Cora have no problem bugging him when they’re hungry and want him to start cooking already. The nurturing side he’s developed after his Mom’s death until it’s become something dark and neurotic is thrilled, his I-just-survived-another-supernatural-crisis-leave-me-the-fuck-alone side is less so. Derek is annoyed that nobody believes in the wolf’s imaginary cooking skills.

 

Stiles exchanges a couple of texts with his dad and with Scott and then wonders what Lydia is currently doing. She’s probably holed up with Aiden doing... things he doesn’t want to think about. It hollows him out that his friends are screwing the murder twins, and thinking about them leads to thinking about the Alpha Pack, and then it’s just downhill from there.

 

So. _He’s emphatically not thinking about what Lydia is doing right now_.

 

It is a good thing that school is closed for a week, he decides.

 

The thought of being surrounded by loud and careless students makes it hard to breathe for a second. He tries to shake it off. As long as the people he cares about are safe and sound he’s, well, not happy exactly, because death is being handed out like candy around here, but content, maybe? But no, not even that, really. He hates that people keep dying but on the other hand, his brain can’t really compute anymore. Maybe it’s a survival instinct, going numb like that.

 

Stiles still doesn’t know how to feel about Harris being dead (he is relieved that his tyranny has finally come to an end and then feels guilty about feeling relieved) and wonders whether their next English teacher will be a psychotic killer, too. He really hopes that the principal will take the allotted mourning time to find proper replacement staff and then hates himself a little bit for thinking that. Nobody could have known that Ms. Blake would turn out to be, well, a crazy bitch getting off on ritually sacrificing her students and colleagues.

 

When his heartbeat starts to pick up Derek throws a pillow at his head to snap him out of it.

 

Stiles throws it back and misses by a solid couple of inches. Derek smirks without looking up from his book. The jerk.

 

~

 

When he gets tired of doing all the work by himself, Stiles blatantly ropes Cora and Isaac into helping him peel the vegetables. Derek is now strictly banned from the kitchen much to everybody’s relief.

 

Preparing dinner with somebody else brings back memories. Stiles can’t help but feel a little bit sad as he thinks of his mother’s laughter and the smell of freshly baked bread.

 

~

 

The next day is more of the same.

 

Until it’s not.

 

~

 

Stiles is a couple of pages into his second novel when Derek himself reaches for another one.

 

The werewolf has a neat stack of books cluttering his nightstand and he seems to diligently work his way from top to bottom. He never looks at them first, just picks the one on top and continues reading. Sometimes Stiles wonders if this is Derek’s coping mechanism right there: immersing himself in a fictional world and shutting out reality. He wonders how Derek is still able to function after everything that’s happened to him. Maybe he is going numb too.

 

The movement of picking another book is enough to catch Stiles’ attention.

 

Nothing else really happens, movement-wise, and he can never look away when Derek gets up to make some coffee, or, like now, stretches his arm towards his nightstand (and no, he certainly is not captivated by the subtle play of muscles barely hidden by Derek’s charcoal-colored henley).

 

Observing the wolf, he’s expecting the familiar quick switch of reading material and the subsequent return of silence and inertia.

 

This time, though, Derek doesn’t immediately start reading. The wolf stares at the cover in puzzled dismay before his whole body goes taut and he hurls the book in a distant corner of the loft.

 

Stiles flinches violently and stares at Derek in shock.

 

What the hell?

 

But Derek acts like nothing’s happened and just grabs the next book from the stack.

 

The wolf doesn’t acknowledge Stiles as he gets up and walks over to where the book has landed. He picks it up, looks at the title and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He remembers reading that for his English class.

 

Straightening his shoulders Stiles walks into the kitchenette and throws _The Crucible_ into the trash.

 

He returns to the couch and sits down. The motion of grabbing his book feels almost mechanical, now. He keeps glancing at Derek and realizes that the werewolf has effectively shattered their shared sense of tranquility.

 

He wonders whether Ms. Blake and Derek used to discuss her lesson plans, her students, or just books in general. The wolf likes to read, obviously, so they must have had a lot to talk about. Never before has he really considered how Derek must be feeling ever since his late girlfriend turned out to be a homicidal druid, has never considered that she was a person too, was maybe even sincere in her role as Jennifer Blake when she wasn’t plotting revenge and strangling innocent bystanders with a garrote.

 

Stiles feels sick, all of a sudden.

 

He stares at the black letters in front of him, but they have become incomprehensible to him.

 

After a while, Stiles realizes that he hasn’t heard Derek turn the page even once since his outburst. He, too, appears to be too wired to continue like before. Escaping their lives has worked for them so far, but reality is an attention seeking bitch that hates being ignored for too long. Now it’s like a third presence in the room, tangible and menacing.

 

Derek huffs a frustrated sigh.

 

Stiles blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

 

“Do you want me to read to you?”

 

He instantly feels appalled by himself.

 

This is not how Stiles and Derek work. There is mutual acceptance, an unmentioned appreciation of the other’s existence at the most. That is why this has been working. They don’t need anything from each other (apart from the fact that they actually need the _company_ ) and can just occupy the same space without actually spending time together—each of them doing their own thing (which happens to be the same thing, incidentally).

 

Derek is staring intently at him, probably trying to sound out any traps and/or hidden agendas.

 

Stiles holds the wolf’s gaze like he isn’t afraid, like he can’t feel the shifting ground underneath his feet.

 

After a moment Derek sighs again, but nods anyway.

 

The man pats the mattress Stiles has slept on the past couple of nights and he dutifully complies with the wordless request.

 

“Start from the beginning,” Derek grumbles and leans back against the backrest of the bed.

 

Stiles throws himself on his back, a pillow stuffed carelessly under his head, and begins to read in a voice as soothing as he is able to manage. Hopefully this book doesn’t contain any trip-wires and land-mines.

 

“ _I remember, in no particular order:_

_-a shiny inner wrist;_

_-steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;_

_-gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;_

_-a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing torchbeams;_

_-another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;_

_-bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door._

_This last isn’t something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn’t always as what you have witnessed._ ”

 

~

 

“This is weird,” Isaac tells Cora over a bowl of Froot Loops. “Even for Stiles.”

 

They are both sitting at the huge table next to Derek’s bed and keep staring at them, no doubt questioning their sanity.

 

“His voice is sort of hypnotizing, though,” Cora remarks, her eyes slightly glazed over whenever Stiles casts a quick glance in their direction.

 

The curls framing Isaac’s head wobble as the boy nods, “Yeah,” he agrees. “Like the buzz of a bee hive or something.”

 

Derek finally snaps when Stiles trips over a sentence for the third time and tells them to shut the hell up.

 

~

 

Stiles wakes up in small increments. By the time he’s able to open his eyes he can’t remember his dreams. And yet... A lingering touch of despair must have followed him from Morpheus’ realm into the waking world—it enfolds him like invisible billows of smoke, not quite there but clinging to his wiry frame nonetheless.

 

Like gravity, Derek is a solid presence next to him, a force that draws him close—and for once, Stiles is grateful for the solitude a sleeping werewolf invokes. The warm body curled around him is the only thing keeping his anxiety halfway in check and he hopes to get his feelings under control before the man wakes up. Stiles doesn’t want to disturb their fragile balance with his problems. They read and they eat, nothing more—this is supposed to be a timeout from their disturbing day-to-day lives. He’ll keep it under wraps until he is back home—a silent and lonely place that keeps his secrets.

 

Instead he inhales the heady scent that surrounds him, a mix of Derek’s body wash, deodorant and sweat, and silently prays.

 

~

 

Derek finally stirs when the first rays of light make it sluggishly through the window, rubs a hand over his face and sits up.

 

Stiles experiences a fleeting moment of panic.

 

“Don’t,” he pleads, his heart heavy in his mouth, and hates himself for his temporary weakness. (He isn’t entirely able to keep it together, not yet.)

 

Derek must be able to recognize some of the emotions flickering across his face despite his efforts to conceal them, because the wolf nods and lies back down, partly on top of Stiles, his face next to his own on the pillow.

 

His arms sneak around Derek and he tells himself he isn’t clinging, he’s just comfortably keeping the man close because it would be rude to lie there like a corpse—just passively taking it. His eyes are fixed on the high ceiling and he directs his energies towards breathing, to feeling the warmth of Derek’s heavy body, to thinking about what he should cook for lunch that day.

 

When he feels the first treacherous sting of tears, he gulps in some more air and tugs his face into Derek’s neck.

 

He is forever grateful when Derek starts humming a tuneless melody low in his throat because it gives him something else to focus on.

 

~

 

This first, well, cuddle, is the tiny stone rolling down a mountain that heralds an inevitable landslide, is the calm before the storm, the night before battle. If you can equate natural and human disasters with physical contact that is. For Stiles it has the same repercussions on the small world he populates, so.

 

~

 

They are both inhabitants of the desert island that is Derek’s bed.

 

Stiles’ brain has reached that particular state he usually only gets when he spends the weekend curled up beneath a pile of warm blankets watching TV—all woozy and slow.

 

He has stopped questioning Derek, the bed, their relationship, this loft, the universe—they live in a cozy bubble that exists outside the space-time continuum. Sometimes he gets the feeling that he is slowly developing a form of Stockholm Syndrome. The only deviation is that he went willingly into this hostage situation where cuddling is a thing that is happening and also preventing him from leaving. He thinks.

 

Derek keeps him physically close, nuzzling his neck or his hair, grabbing his hips when Stiles shifts too much, basically holding him down when he feels like it. Sometimes the older man rests his head on Stiles’ stomach or his thigh, his lower back when Stiles is laying on his stomach.

 

He thinks (hopes) it’s a werewolf thing. A pack thing, maybe.

 

And maybe he should be freaking out, but for the first time in a year and a half he feels accepted, sought after, _wanted_. And not for his mad Google-search skills or mountain-ash wielding powers. He is not ignored, left to fend for himself, or passed by in favor of something ( _somebody_ ) else.

 

(He’s being unfair and petty, he knows, but that’s how he feels.)

 

Isaac and Cora have stopped making fun of them, basically because Stiles and Derek don’t really give a damn. These two seem to have accepted the status quo and only bother them when they want food. Or watch them in lieu of television (which they don’t own), like cats staring at an aquarium filled with zigzagging fish.

 

Periodically he reassures his dad that he is still alive, but doesn’t otherwise communicate with the outside world.

 

(Stiles doesn’t ask about the physical touching, fearing that Derek will stop once he opens that particular can of worms.)

 

~

 

Stiles’ voice is starting to sound hoarse, so upon finishing the Barnes novel he stretches his body like a lazy, sleepy cat he would secretly like to be in his next life and turns heavy-lidded eyes towards Derek.

 

“You read the next one,” he mutters and stretches some more.

 

When Stiles has met Derek, every word out of the wolf’s mouth has sounded like he’s lost a battle with himself, like he’s tried so hard to keep it all in but the syllables still made it past his clenched jaw. He’s improved, of course, but conversations are usually still few and far between, a scarce blend of sarcasm and hollowed pessimism.

 

Now Stiles feels giddy with anticipation as Derek picks up another paperback because this is probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to listen to the werewolf’s voice for hours on end.

 

The werewolf looks at the cover in his hands and throws an incredulous look in his general direction.

 

“Really?” he asks, but starts to read anyway.

 

Stiles grins broadly and can’t bite back the pleased sigh that escapes him once Derek starts reading. He wants nothing more than to relax, close his eyes and snicker occasionally when the man pronounces words like “pubic hair” and “urinate” (and, yes, he really is a five-year-old boy in spirit), but then he gets distracted by moving lips and decides to stare at them instead.

 

“ _Ennis del Mar wakes before five, wind rocking the trailer, hissing in around the aluminum door and window frames. The shirts hanging on a nail shudder slightly in the draft. He gets up, scratching the grey wedge of belly and pubic hair, shuffles to the gas burner, pours leftover coffee in a chipped enamel pan; the flame swathes it in blue. He turns on the tap and urinates in the sink, pulls on his shirt and jeans, his worn boots, stamping the heels against the floor to get them full on._ ”

 

~

 

When Stiles is thirsty, Derek brings him water. When his shoulders are stiff from sitting too long in one position, Derek kneads them into submission. And although Stiles is the one who does all the cooking, Derek keeps them both caffeinated. (They send Isaac and Cora to do the shopping, not even attempting to leave their little island of disorienting togetherness and rumpled sheets.) When they are tired they fall asleep curled up in each other, or on top of each other—sometimes they make the effort to crawl under the covers first. They reluctantly let each other take showers, but only because otherwise they would start to smell and Stiles can only stand that for so long until it starts to seriously bother him and it must be worse for the sensitive nose of a werewolf.

 

~

 

There comes a time in your life when you have to acknowledge certain facts about yourself if you want to keep living a semi-functional life. The point is not that Stiles has reached that time at the tender age of 17 and therefore a lot sooner than most people would expect. The point is, he tells himself, that being somewhat of a professional liar 90 per cent of the time, he should at least be honest with himself when it counts. (Pretending that he would rather play another round of COD on his X-box than go on a date on a Friday night anyway obviously doesn’t fall into that category.) The past year and a half have taught him that ignoring your problems usually ends in pain and death. So he tries to be more honest with himself, if not other people (because ugh).

 

Stiles looks at all the relevant data and is eventually man enough to concede that spending day in, day out in bed with a stupidly hot dude sort of really turns him on. Like, really _on_. There is an intense warmth coiling low in his body, a faint blush on his cheeks that has as much to do with arousal as with embarrassment because he is pretty sure that Derek can smell it on him. He is even more than sure that Derek is experiencing similar urges judging by the erection currently pressed against his ass.

 

Sometimes, when he pushes back into the touch, Derek growls low in his throat and keeps him still. It does something to Stiles, being in a constant state of low-level arousal and yet forced to power through it, to learn to live with it and keep reading, keep his voice steady as not to draw the attention from Isaac or Cora.

 

When Stiles’ hard-on is too obvious, Derek lazily pulls a blanket over their laps just before one of the others enters the room. If they notice, they never let on.

 

He wonders what would happen if Cora and Isaac left for longer than the time it takes to go to the store. He wonders if they ever will.

 

~

 

Sometime on Friday, Derek digs through Stiles’ bag while listening to him read out loud the last couple of pages, looks at each of the books Stiles has brought in turn, compares them to his own stack and settles back on the bed.

 

When Stiles pauses after reading the last line Derek replaces the volume in his hands with a thin, dog-eared copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_.

 

“Read this one next,” he orders and flops down next to Stiles, throwing a heavy arm over the teen, effectively discouraging any possible (but highly unlikely) escape attempts.

 

~

 

After almost a week Stiles begins to wonder whether they have reached an unhealthy level of codependency. Will Derek stop him from leaving come Monday? Will it all end in cannibalism or a sloppy remake of _The Shining_?

 

Stiles is well and truly past the point of caring. And so, apparently, is Derek.

 

~

 

“ _The vestibule door opens onto a June morning so fine and scrubbed Clarissa pauses at the threshold as she would at the edge of a pool, watching the turquoise water lapping at the tiles, the liquid nets of sun wavering in the blue depths. As if standing at the edge of a pool she delays for a moment the plunge, the quick membrane of chill, the plain shock of immersion. New York in its racket--_ ”

 

Isaac’s questions comes unexpected and startles them out of their routine. Stiles interrupts his reading as Isaac approaches Derek’s bed.

 

“Can Scott and Allison sleep over?”

 

Isaac watches them apprehensively, probably expecting Derek to refuse. Derek briefly looks up and growls his agreement before going back to gnawing lightly but thoroughly on Stiles’ shoulder, a things he’s recently become fond of doing. Stiles observes Isaac for a moment longer (notes his surprised delight in passing), until Derek bites down a little harder, reminding him of his “duty”.

 

Stiles snorts and goes back to reading.

 

“ _New York in its racket..._ ”

 

~

 

When Allison and Scott arrive, not much later, what they find in Derek’s loft—namely them in a tangled heap on the bed, Derek still gnawing on Stiles’ shoulder like the weirdo that he is—gives them pause.

 

Stiles’ soft voice has become a constant background noise and the inhabitants of the loft have come to rely on its steady rhythm, not really noticing it anymore (like the sounds coming from a radio that is always turned on in order to defeat the acute silence that tends to descend on lonely households).

 

Stiles shortly looks up and waves at his friends. Derek offers only a terse nod (Scott is sort of his Alpha now, isn’t he? That must be weird.) and Stiles goes right back to invoking distant worlds with the beautifully crafted words in his hands. They have only so much time left till Monday morning.

 

From the corner of his eye Stiles notices Scott scent the air before crunching up his nose. It’s adorable, really, and Stiles would have commented on this puppy-like behavior any other day. He knows that he reeks of Derek and vice versa, which must at least confuse the hell out of Scott if not irritate him.

 

Stiles’ voice wavers a little as Derek suddenly untangles himself and gets up, grabs his empty mug and saunters over to the table. The wolf refills his mug with still vaguely hot coffee, climbs back onto the bed while taking a cautious sip.

 

Not able to curb his almost Pavlovian impulse, Stiles sits up because _coffee_ , takes the mug from Derek’s unresisting hands and gulps down a third of the bitter liquid himself before handing it back. The wolf smirks at him and Stiles recognizes that he’s been played. Derek places the mug on his nightstand and crowds into Stiles’ personal space, with maybe a little bit more force than strictly necessary, until they’re both comfortable. The wolf nudges Stiles until he resumes reading.

 

Stiles is not stupid, he recognizes a possessive power play when he sees one. Something unnamed unfurls in his chest that he hasn’t even been aware of before. Derek apparently likes him enough to stake his claim, to show that they are close enough that cuddling is a thing, that Derek actually has a right to invade his personal space. Stiles and Derek spend time together now, time that isn’t dictated by werewolf business, and being friends with Scott doesn’t automatically supersede hanging out with anybody else. He isn’t just Scott’s friend anymore, has a right to his own feelings and problems. Has a right to be liked by other people. It feels liberating and calming at the same time now that he isn’t the broken and pushed-aside half of the Stiles-and-Scott duo anymore.

 

Scott will always be his brother, but maybe it is high time to get new (additional?) friends.

 

After an agonizingly long moment spent staring, Isaac shepherds his guests upstairs to his room (Stiles supposes), but even occupied like this, Stiles can distantly hear Scott’s bemused “What the hell was that?”.

 

A slow smile spreads across his face.

 

~

 

“STILINSKI! Get your ass over here and start cooking!”

 

Stiles groans in reaction to Cora’s bellow and buries his face in Derek’s shirt.

 

“I don’t wanna,” he pouts and presses even closer to his wolf as the resulting chuckle shakes the body beneath him like an earthquake.

 

School looms on the horizon like Judgment Day and Stiles would rather stay in bed with Derek for as long as possible. What if the former alpha will just go back to being a creeping creeper and only communicate with Stiles when it involves bodily harm and bloodshed?

 

“We’re hungry!” Isaac unhelpfully supplies.

 

“MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN BREAKFAST!” Stiles yells back, but his face is still pressed against Derek’s chest so the statement loses a lot of its bite and volume.

 

He firmly believes in going right back to sleep, but then Derek scratches blunt nails across the sleep-warm skin of his lower back and sleep is suddenly (ahem) hard to come by. Stiles shoots up and decides that maybe making breakfast isn’t such a bad idea after all.

 

~

 

When Sunday afternoon rolls round and the pack has eaten all of the food in Derek’s kitchen, Isaac metaphorically throws down what would have been the conversational equivalent of a gage mere weeks ago (back when Isaac had been sort of between two packs), while staring very carefully at his empty plate.

 

“Scott’s Mom invited me over for dinner,” the shy werewolf remarks.

 

Scott perks up like a puppy and Allison just stares at the former Alpha as if daring him to say no. Derek, predictably, says nothing.

 

In the ensuing silence Cora snags a lone fry from Stiles’ plate.

 

“Uh, also a, like, sleepover?” Isaac adds.

 

Stiles mentally starts to squirm, unable to deal with silence in general and even less so when it is as awful as this one. He decides to take matters in his own hands (and probably firmly oversteps any boundaries still remaining between him and Derek).

 

“Sure, you can totally spend the night at Scott’s,” he says faux-cheerfully, bulldozing over Derek’s rights as pseudo housemaster of the Hale Boarding Home for Young Werewolves.

 

Derek nods, pressing his leg against Stiles’ under the table.

 

Gaining confidence that he has apparently sufficient say-so when it comes to the Hale side of the pack, he adds: “Just don’t forget to take your school stuff with you.”

 

Isaac enthusiastically bobs his head.

 

“Thanks, Stiles!”

 

Allison and Scott communicate their bemused incredulity with eyebrows and frowns, before the shiny new Alpha throws an endearingly doubtful look in Stiles’ direction.

 

“You can come,” he offers, still obviously unsure about the whole... _Stiles-and-Derek_ situation. “If you want. Mom would love to have you over.”

 

For a moment, he really thinks about going. But that would mean leaving Derek’s bed. He may or may not have become an addict.

 

“Nah, man. It’s cool,” Stiles eventually replies and his heart speeds up a little when Derek is unable to suppress a pleased-sounding grumble.

 

~

 

Derek’s hands start to wander, lightly brushing over his hips and fingering the hem of his too-wide t-shirt.

 

Stiles instantly knows that Cora must finally be asleep. For a werewolf the girl is pretty hard to rouse once she’s conked out. Isaac, on the other hand, wakes up at the softest of sounds—quiet footsteps leading to the bathroom in the dead of night, the rustle of curtains, a muffled sneeze.

 

But Isaac is at Scott’s tonight.

 

Stiles’ breath hitches as Derek’s broad hand palms his belly. Nothing the wolf hasn’t done before. And yet, they are as alone as they’ll ever be when perpetually surrounded by werewolves.

 

He thinks he has a pretty good idea where this is headed.

 

But when Stiles presses into the touch, his blood pooling low in his groin, Derek eases off of him a bit. Stiles huffs in annoyance and unresolved sexual tension.

 

Hadn’t they been dancing around this subject all week?

 

He asks Derek that exact thing and the wolf rubs his beard against the sensitive skin of Stiles’ throat, making him shiver.

 

“No, Stiles”, Derek says in a gruff voice and Stiles flinches.

 

 _Oh god_.

 

It’s just been him, hasn’t it? Derek’s just been humoring him. All the touching and marking and scenting is just a wolfy thing and Derek totally doesn’t like him like that. That is it, isn’t it?

 

He’s just been _nice_ to him. That’s all.

 

His heart starts to race and his throat feels suddenly wet and thick with anxiety.

 

He’s just thought—

 

Then, Derek bites him.

 

It’s not playful this time. It fucking hurts. Stiles tries to scoot away from the wolf, but Derek slings an arm around his middle and holds him there with disgusting ease. Stiles squirms and tries to get out of the unyielding grip, his breath starting to come in short gasps, and he just needs to get off this bed and _think_ for a second.

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” the wolf growls into his ear. “ _Stop_.”

 

“Can’t,” he gasps and struggles harder.

 

Stiles has thought that they are growing closer, and they are. Just, he can’t deal with the thought of having read this all wrong, not now, not when his insides are still so raw and sharp-edged. He’s loved how Derek’s opened up to him, in a physical sense at least, how they’ve been conveying closeness through touch, not words. There are no lies this way.

 

But apparently there is still miscommunication.

 

“Stiles,” the wolf tries again and Stiles just wishes he would stop already.

 

If he can just get a couple of hours he can pull himself together. Probably. Be the friend that Derek needs. Lock all those blooming feelings into a dark, dark place deep inside where other people won’t see. He is used to rejection, he can do it again. Even if the rejection comes from Derek. The one person who’s always managed to get under his skin.

 

“Stiles, I _do_ like you like that,” the wolf finally grounds out, almost sounding distressed.

 

Stiles doesn’t believe him. It’s a ploy to calm him down, nothing more.

 

“I just can’t be with anyone like that,” Derek continues, unaware of his doubts. “Not yet.”

 

And that feels like a bucket of freezing water being emptied over his already shivering body. Ms. Blake, he thinks. Kate Argent. Paige.

 

He suddenly feels like the biggest asshole.

 

He doesn’t say anything (because what the hell do you say to that?) but his body ceases to fight. He thinks of Lydia, who is screwing one of Boyd’s killers (and Erica’s, he reminds himself), thinks of Heather and how her lips had felt right before she’d been kidnapped.

 

“Yeah,” he finally agrees with a hoarse voice. “Not yet.”

 

Derek nods against his neck and moves them both into a more comfortable position. With Derek curled around him, he slowly starts to feel warm again.

 

“I like being close to you,” the wolf admits quietly after a while and Stiles’ heart breaks a little.

 

Not yet, he thinks. Not yet.

 

~

 

Stiles wakes up when it is still dark outside.

 

He opens his eyes and stares out of the gigantic window—the city still asleep behind the thick pane of glass. He has dreaded this morning all week and now it’s finally arrived. He’s emotionally exhausted and doesn’t know how he’ll survive even a day in school. Maybe he shouldn’t have spent the week so isolated in Derek’s bed, just the thought of hallways filled to the brim with noisy, carefree, _happy_ teenagers sounds like a complete nightmare.

 

Yes. Derek is definitely rubbing off on him.

 

Stiles sighs right before strong hands turn him around, push him back against the messy pile of pillows, leaving Stiles no choice but to look into Derek’s supernaturally gleaming eyes.

 

They stare at each other for a while.

 

He wonders whether things will change, now that real life will pick up where it’s left off a week ago. He doesn’t want it to, likes what Derek and he have become, would love to do this another week, maybe longer.

 

He says so.

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“You’d go stir-crazy,” he retorts. “I’d have to kill you eventually.”

 

Stiles snorts. It’s probably true.

 

After another minute of lazy staring, Derek finally drags them both out of bed and pushes Stiles towards the staircase.

 

“Go take a shower, I’ll start the coffee.”

 

Stiles just blinks at him in dismay. They have _hours_ till school actually starts.

 

Derek grins.

 

“There is still one last chapter you have to finish.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> List of quotes in order of their appearance:
> 
>  _The Sense of an Ending_ by Julian Barnes  
>  _Brokeback Mountain_ by Annie Proulx  
>  _The Hours_ by Michael Cunningham


End file.
